Beware the Drumpercrock

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Apologies to Lewis Carroll     

’Twas votecrack, and the Cheese’d of Skin

Did Grump and Twitter in the night:

All Klimsy’d were his alt-right views,

And Nasty Women gave him fright.

 

“Beware the Drumpercrock, my girl!

The clod that bite, the maw that’s jabber!

Beware the Orangefaced Turd, and shun

The furious Pussygrabb’r!”

 

Took Vorpal pen in Tiny hand;

Ponscumm’d Bad Hombres that he sought—

So dozed he with Deplorebull’d fools

And drooled he there in Fuddled Thought.

 

And, as in pompous glare he stood,

The Drumpercrock, with Eyes of Bulge,

Came whiffling through the Golfcan Yuge,

Miss-spelling as it Grease-ly stomped!

 

One, two! three! six! Want cheeseburger! he whimpered Zwill,

His Vorpal cellphone insecure!

His SackPence blumph, intellect nil!

He jowls galumphing, “Crooked Hill!”

 

“And hast thou tamed the Drumpercrock?

Let’s build that wall, my Bigly boy!

O frabjous pee! CovfeeFeeFee!”

He Bannon’ed in his Frittled Sploy.

 

’Twas horr’bl, and the Cheese’d of Skin

His Putin o’er the grumbll sailed:

Flimsie’d t’were the old white men — SAD! —

And pink pussy tuques prevailed.

— macfayden nov. 9 2017

 

Post-script: This open-mic poetry event was a blast. Thanks to the Almanac for the always-groovy space, and to MC extraordinaire Michael Gravel and the Raving Poets Band for bringing the magic. Meanwhile, the Old Trout Puppet Workshop is back in town with its own peculiar version of Jabberwocky at the Roxy, 8529 Gateway Blvd, through Nov. 26. Liz Nicholls sets it up over at her 12th Night blog.

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canada (palindrome)

it was so different in the ’70s
it was plaid bellbottoms and sideburns
it was draft dodging and october crisis
it was fresh science and a whole nation beating the soviets in hockey
we were so much more than prisons and fighter jets
we were clean and polite and happily multicultural
we sewed maple leafs on our backpacks
we were not called terrorists for loving trees
we were not called terrorists. we made love under trees.
we sewed maple leafs and were allowed water in our backpacks.
we were clean and polite and didn’t have to think about polar bears.
we were so much more than hockey.
we fought prisons and were proud of our scientists.
it was draft dodging and quebec questioning.
it was plaid bellbottoms and not burning sides.
it was so different in the ’70s.

‘thank you, this is the worst thing i’ve read’

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Top 30 things I love about Edmonton

See, here’s the thing. I do not like winter. It does not agree with me. It depresses me, it makes me cold and cranky and ornery and sad.
So why do I reside in a city that is occupied by winter for a minimum of five months each year? And not just mild winter; HARSH winter. The kind of winter that renders sidewalks so icy they are hip-fracturingly treacherous; the kind of winter where the daily temperature forecast comes with an automatic ‘feels like’ number called Wind Chill that has made me weep on occasion. The kind of winter that means seven hours of daylight per day – on a good day – between now and next March. The kind of winter that means parkas, toques, mitts, scarves, fleece vests and lined, industrial-strength boots. Where fashion accessories include snow shovels, snow blowers, ice scrapers, hand warmers, flannel sheets and crampons.
Why do I live here? Yup. That’s a damn good question.
But I’ve lived here for 27 years. So there must be something keeping me here. It’s just that, when my relatives from Down East ask (as they inevitably do after having visited me during late November 2007 when the temperature didn’t rise above minus 23 – feels like minus 33! – for the entire duration of their stay) Why do you stay there? I have trouble articulating an answer.

Because, frankly, it’s hell for half the year. And if the other half is, as a former colleague used to say on an annoyingly regular basis, six months of potholes and bad skiing (not to mention the mosquito factor), why do I stay?

The prime reason is, of course, friends. I have an amazing assortment of super amazing friends here, so whenever I start to believe that it might be pleasant (and possibly even artistically more lucrative) to move somewhere with a better climate (literally, politically, culturally – pick any that apply) I am reminded that if I were to leave this place, I would be leaving behind a wonderful tribe of people whom I love and by whom i am loved. That is no small thing.

Not my idea of a good time.

But there must be other factors that make the place bearable, yes? Absolutely. Because I don’t ski, and nor do I skate; and while I am in fact very much a “sweater person,” I do not enjoy having to wear wool and turtlenecks every day from mid-October to the end of April (and sometimes through the May long weekend).

So for the past several months I’ve been making a list of the things that I like, in fact (dare I say?) LOVE about Edmonton. And I decided to launch this list here in this blog on the day the first snowfall announced the arrival of Winter 2011. Which is today. Sadly. (Although, not so sadly, it could have arrived on a day in mid-October. Or even earlier. So, thank goddess for small mercies.)

Throughout the next few weeks I will list one thing a day that I love about Etown. As you may have surmised, there is nothing winter-related on this list. OK, maybe one thing – but you will have to wait for another day to find out what that is. (Hint – it’s got nothing to do with the Oilers.)

This list is in no particular order, by the way. And a lot of it is going to be about food. Which is my prerogative because I like food … and food is a great thing to share with friends … and it’s MY LIST.

So here goes: kicking things off is (drumroll, please) …

1. The Sugarbowl Cafe.

Located in the Garneau neighbourhood (10922 88 Ave.) next to Red Bike and a stone’s throw from the High Level Diner, the Sugarbowl is historic and cozy and has a great patio. It has an extensive beer list. It offers smoked paprika popcorn + lime (don’t knock it until you’ve tried it – and then you will be forever hooked, like me).
It is famous for its cinnamon buns (get there first thing or you’ll be disappointed) and it has lovely warm, dark wood and local art on the walls.
It’s comfortable in the most literal sense of the word.
And though it’s only a few blocks from campus, you don’t have to be a U of A student to hang out there. Lots of writers, in fact, hang out and write there.

I have sipped many a kriek (Belgian cherry beer) on the Sugarbowl patio. I have gotten sunburned on the Sugarbowl patio. I have plotted world travels (and my world takeover) over lattes on the Sugarbowl patio.
And once I found a $20 bill on the Sugarbowl patio.

Did I mention the patio?

Pomme frites, hummus & pita, yam fries, cheese plate … the eclectic menu (open for breakfast, lunch and dinner) has enough options to satisfy carnivores and vegetarians alike. Plus, the proprietors get their eggs and meats from local farms. Other bonuses: sometimes there are beer tastings; live music has been known to break out.

And while parking in that area can be a challenge, the Sugarbowl is easily accessible via public transit: the number 9 bus stops less than half a block away on 109 Street.

One down, 29 to go.

why don’t dreams speak english

(revised for november 11, 2011)

why don’t dreams speak english
why do i crave coffee and salt
why can’t two or more lovers
vie for my affection with flowers
sonnets, chocolate, pearls
& boat trips down the seine

why don’t we hold hands anymore

why don’t we give people names to war games
like we do with hurricanes:
peggy sue instead of desert storm,
sam & dave
instead of shock & awe
(it might be hard to take all this fighting seriously
if patriot missiles were called emily
& soldiers were all called sarah)
why don’t we search with flashlights
for kindnesses
instead of with big tanks
for more things to destroy

why are my eyes so red
where have all the flowers gone
who knows where the time goes
does anybody really know what time it is?
why do i eat when i’m not hungry
why don’t i just sleep when i’m too tired to stand
when did i get so naive
when did i first practice to deceive
when did i let myself go

and what the christ happened to our prayer flags?

who’s in charge
who goes first
whose is biggest …

who won
who won

who won, dammit, WHO WON?

and

what does it matter;
everyone’s still so bloody scared

& can somebody please explain to the virtual jarhead
in the back of the room
the killer irony of lining up to buy a videogame
that lets us make sport of the brutality of war
on the eve of remembrance day?

where’s the love? / that’s your call of duty
where’s the love? / that’s your call of duty
where’s the love? / yes sir, that’s your call of duty

hell, why can’t somebody just invent a peace bomb?

and jesus

if there’s really a wise & loving god,
why does everybody look so fucking sad?